Medium Dark Roast (and I think we're in love)
by EvilIsntBorn337
Summary: College coffee shop AU. Kind of fluff, kind of fun, but pretty damn cute.
1. Chapter 1

Emma sighed heavily and looked down at her mug with a frown. This _had_ to be decaf, because even having actually _slept _last night she was still half-falling asleep on top of her copy of _The Canterbury Tales._

Granted, that probably had to do more with _The Canterbury Tales _than it did the coffee, but still.

Draining the last of the cup, she left her book on the table and walked over to the counter. The barista was doing something intricate looking with an espresso machine along the far wall, so she stared up at the menu for something to do, studying it like she didn't come here every single day. She practically had it memorized, even though she always ordered the same thing anyways.

As if on cue, the barista pushed a button on the machine that let out a puff of steam, and with a satisfied nod turned around to face her.

"Sorry about the wait. What can I get for you, lass?"

Yeah, lass. He called everyone either lad or lass or some strange nickname, and at first she had thought it was just another hipster wannabe being pretentious, calling people names out of the last century, but after coming here almost daily for two semesters, she realized that it was just how he was.

"Can I grab a medium dark roast – and not decaf this time."

"If you thought that was decaf, lass, I think it's time I cut you off." He grinned at her, this twist of a scoundrel of a smile, and shrugged his shoulders like _those are the rules, what can I do?_

"Oh yeah, I'm sure the coffee police are going to crack down real hard on you." She arched an eyebrow at him and slid her money over to his side of the counter. "I'm serious. I have an exam in three hours, so medium dark roast _please." _

"I'll bend the rules this time, but only because it's an emergency." He pushed her money back towards her and grinned again. "On the house this time. For luck."

"This had better be one magic cup of coffee or I'm going to fail this exam."

"Better get back to your studying then, lass, instead of flirting with the barista. He handed her her drink and winked, and it wasn't until he had turned back around that she realized what he had said.

"I'm not–" Hold on – Emma Swan didn't need to defend herself to any coffee pouring bastard, especially against something she _wasn't even doing_. "Why don't you mind your own business."

"Would that I could, lass, but alas, O woman's counsel is so often cold! A woman's counsel brought us first to woe."

"_Excuse_ me?" She drew herself up straighter, and took a deep breath, ready to _counsel_ him on where he could shove his attitude, but he chuckled and gestured over to her book still sitting on the table by the window.

"It's a line from that book you're reading. And if you didn't catch that one then there's nothing my coffee can do to help you pass that exam of yours."

"Rub it in, why don't you." She grumbled, walking back to her table with a scowl at him. It wasn't his fault that she hadn't studied, but it _was_ his fault that he was aggravating her.

Even if the laugh that echoed from the counter stayed in her mind long after she left the coffee house.

"So." A few days later, she was back at her regular table, regular order in front of her, except _this _was not regular – having the barista out from behind the bar, standing in front of her table, looking at her expectantly like they were the best of friends. "How'd the exam go?"

"Great." She rolled her eyes, then looked pointedly at him. "Though I'm putting a lot of faith in your magic cup of coffee to pull me through it so it'd better deliver."

"I may have to grow more magic coffee beans if you keep this up." He said with the same grin as last time.

"Keep what up?"

"Flirting with the barista instead of studying." He gestured down to her open laptop, and she knew he had seen her "essay" – the one that was little more than a title and the sentence 'Geoffrey Chaucer can bite me.'

"I'm not the one talking to the customers when he's supposed to be cleaning tables." She pointed to the damp rag he was purportedly using to wipe down the table next to her.

"Well done, lass." He saluted her and turned to saunter back towards the counter, saying over his shoulder, "You just talked yourself out of some wonderful company."

She rolled her eyes and turned back to her paper, sighing as she did. She was never going to finish – hell, she wasn't sure she was ever going to _start_.

"Want a trick?"

She jumped, her head snapping around to see him standing right beside her again – hadn't she just gotten _rid_ of him?

"Listen, you." She started, but bit back her words as he set a full cup of coffee on the table in front of her, taking her old empty mug in one hand and tapping her computer screen with the other.

"Don't write about the whole book. Pick one story – one section of one story, even – and tear it to pieces." Then with a strange, private smile, he turned back around, tapping the handle of the mug he had set down, and said, "Medium dark roast. For luck."

"Hey." Emma leaned against the counter, watching the barista as he packed bags of coffee into a high cupboard. He swung to face her with a wide, easy smile, and her heart leapt into her throat as he leaned out into the void, the only thing keeping him from falling off the counter he was standing on being his grasp on the corner of the cabinet. "Jesus, get down from there or turn back around. I'm not watching you fall off that counter tonight."

"If not that, what _does_ bring you here so late?" He asked, hopping down easily and coming to lean on the other side of the counter, mirroring her position. Both leaning slightly towards the centre of the counter, they were closer together then they had possibly ever been. It was strangely…okay. And that was coming from Emma Swan, who had been told time and time again that she had a personal space issue.

She had always thought of it more as an I-don't-want-idiots-in-my-face-issue, but semantics aside, she really didn't mind the distance between her and the barista. Granted, it wasn't the same with him as it had been with some of her exes. They had been…relationships. They had been going into things with all the expectations that came with _boyfriend_ and _girlfriend_, but this barista was just…there. As long as she had been coming to this coffee house, he had been here, and she supposed she had just gotten used to seeing him. And now, apparently, to talking with him.

"Celebratory drink." She said, and threw her finished essay down on the counter – her finished essay with a big red 75 at the top. "I took your advice."

"My coffee must be magic after all." He grabbed a mug from below the counter and grinned at her. "Medium dark roast?"

"Nah. I don't drink coffee at…" she glanced down at her watch. "…Jesus, one thirty in the morning…if I can help it."

"What will we be celebrating with this evening, then?"

"I don't care. Surprise me."

His eyebrows shot up at that one, followed by a smile that unfurled so smoothly it was already splitting his face before Emma realized it was there. "As you wish, lass."

"Speaking of one o'clock." She said, turning so she was facing away from the counter as he made her drink, fiddling around with syrup and the espresso machine. "Doesn't this place ever close?"

"Aye." He said. "We're open till one on Fridays. I was stocking for tomorrow when you walked in."

"You forgot to turn your open sign around." She pointed out, glancing over her shoulder at him with an arched brow. "Hell of a way to close up shop."

"What can I say?" His voice was muffled as he dug around for something in a low fridge. "I'm dedicated."

"Or, possibly insane."

"Possibly." He reappeared, holding a can of whipped cream, and put a swirl of it on whatever was in the cup. He squirted some casually into his own mouth, and took the cup to the opposite counter, busying himself with something Emma couldn't see, then turned back to her with the drink in hand. "Voila."

"What is it?" She asked, regarding the cup as he handed it to her. He looked at her sadly and shook his head.

"Hot cocoa." He said, flashing her a winning smile. "With cinnamon."

"Interesting." She looked at it again, then back at him, and laughed at his expression. "Don't look so wounded. I'm going to drink it."

"Don't have to look so affronted about the whole prospect." He muttered. She bit back her laughter and took a hearty gulp of the drink – more to please him, almost – but her eyes widened as she tasted what she had made, then drifted shut.

"Okay, I take it back. Your coffee isn't magic – _this _is."

"So _now_ we like the cocoa." He threw his hands up in the air, but she could see the happy tilt to his eyes. He had wanted her to like it.

"How did you even…" She wrapped both hands around the mug. "That is not fair."

"What's not fair?"

" You can handle Chaucer, you can make…some kind of godlike drink, you look like _that_, and…" Her words cut out, her mouth gaping like a big, stupid trout, because _she had not just said that_.

"Look like what now?" He asked, his pleased smile telling her he knew _exactly _what she had meant. And of course he knew. He would have had to have been blind not to. He was tall, probably a head taller than she was, with dark brown hair, a beard that was halfway between scruff and deliberate, and the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

"Neverm—" She could feel the red blush drain straight from her cheeks as the door to the coffee house opened and _he_ walked through the door. He, the ex-who-must-not-be-named, with a whole group of his idiot friends and the ridiculous, slutty, idiot, _but God hotter than I'll ever be_ girl he had cheated on Emma with. Publically. Repeatedly. She turned back to the barista, and she knew he saw the frantic look in her eyes, and hissed, "Pretendwe'redating."

"What?"

"You. Me. Dating." She whispered quickly, right as Walsh sidled up behind her, breaking her personal space rule _a thousand time_s as he cut in front of her to reach the counter."

"Hey." He said easily. Casually. Like he hadn't dated her for two years and suddenly decided she wasn't good enough.

"And fuck you." She said pleasantly, smiling wide without a hint of goodwill, and looked over his head to lock eyes with the barista. _Please play along please play along please – "_So tomorrow at seven's still good?"

"It's great, love. Pick you up at yours?"

"Yup." She smiled at him, and _that one _was 100% genuine.

"Oh, please." Walsh cut in, looking between her and the barista. "You're not serious."

_Oh, was he jealous._

Emma shrugged. "More serious than I ever was about you."

"You liar. You—"

"Hey." That was the barista, and his voice sounded like steel. "I'll thank you not to talk to my girlfriend like that, and I'll ask you to leave because we're closed, mate."

Walsh sputtered for a moment – he couldn't ever take being said no to, and apparently that hadn't changed – and Emma just smiled at the barista again, waving a casual hand at Walsh as she left.

Saved her grades, and her evening. Maybe that man really was magic.


	2. Chapter 2

Emma was sprawled on her bed, bag of popcorn nestled in the crook of her arm, lost in _Iron Man_, when a crisp knock echoed around the corners of her small single room.

"Ruby, I am _not_ going out tonight so don't even try!" She yelled through the door. _God_, her friend could be annoying. The amount of times someone had to say they were _not_ into clubbing before it got through that thick skull…

"Is this…Emma Swan?" The voice on the other side sounded more hesitant than Emma suspected Ruby ever even _could_, besides the fact that whoever was behind that door was decidedly male.

"Uh…who's asking?" She called back, pausing the movie and sitting up.

"Killian Jones."

"I think you have the wrong room." Nevermind how he knew her name – she didn't know any Killian Joneses, and to hell with opening the door to strangers.

"I'm the…uh…barista?" He said, and it suddenly clicked as to why that voice sounded so familiar. Then a thought popped into her head, and she glanced down at the clock in the corner of her screen.

"Seven on the dot." She muttered with a wry grin, standing to walk over to the door. She pulled it open to reveal a very dapper barista – _a very dapper Killian Jones, I guess –_ looking more than a little sheepish as he held out a sheaf of papers to her.

Of course. She had left her essay on the counter.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think I wrote my room number on my Chaucer essay." She raised a warning eyebrow, leaving the door open only enough to allow her to lean against the frame as she watched him fidget.

"Yes. I…well, it took some asking around…"

"God, I hate this building." She muttered over him. Of course someone would just give away her room number. Some kind of security that was.

"I do apologize." He said, and she could tell it was sincere. "But I had a class a few buildings over and figured you might want your paper back."

"Yeah, because I don't come into the coffee shop every single day, and you _totally _couldn't have returned it then."

"Well, you _did_ ask me out, and it's not good form to stand up a lady."

"Christ." She smiled and shook her head, opening the door wider and ushering him in. "I guess I did, didn't I?"

"I'd be happy to leave you be, if you'd prefer." He said, regarding her small room even as he did. Strangely, from him it didn't feel invasive. If anything, he just _fit_ in the small space, like the red leather jacket hanging from the hook on the back of the door, to the purple and white knit blanket peeking out from under her pillow. "But let me introduce myself properly." He continued, sticking out a hand for her to shake. "Killian Jones, professional coffee wizard."

"Emma Swan." She returned. "Professional Chaucer scholar."

"If yours are the hands that Modern English poetry fall to, I say let it die." He deadpanned. She rolled her eyes at him, and they both lapsed into silence. Emma wasn't quite sure what to say to him, standing there in old jeans and a sweatshirt, their topics of conversation pretty much exhausted. After a few long moments, he laughed a little. "Do you happen to have any coffee? This all seems to go better when I'm fixing you a drink."

"If I had coffee in here, why do you think I'd be spending every paycheque at the coffee house?"

"Perhaps there's good company." He suggested with a waggle of his brows, pulling a laugh out of her.

"Well, good company can travel. I was going to go to the library – wanna come?"

"Well…" He pretended to consider it a moment, but she could see his answer already bright in his eyes. "On my honour as a Literature student, I couldn't let you near those poor books alone. I've seen how you've butchered poor Chaucer already."

"You're going to talk yourself right out of some excellent company." She said with a grin, grabbing her bag off the floor and shutting her computer – Iron Man would have to wait.

"Perish the thought." He made a face at her, and held the door open with a gallant bow. "After you, Swan."

She was waiting for him tonight, sorting through the pile of maybe-dirty laundry on her floor as she did. They were both busy, both students, both with jobs, but they found time between it all. Granted, the time they found was most often spent studying different things together, but it was like their conversations at the coffee house: normal, average, almost boring, but perfect.

His knock pierced the silence in the room, and she smiled softly to herself. She knew his knock now, the three sharp raps on the thin door, and it always made her happy to hear it. She didn't know quite was _this_ was between them, but whatever it was it made her feel warm and safe and _right_ and she never wanted it to end.

"It's open, you idiot." She called. It was always open for him, and she had told him that _a thousand_ times, but still he knocked. Good form and all that.

She teased him about it but, privately, she never wanted to stop hearing those three crisp knocks.

"Evening, Swan." He said, slipping through the door and sinking down on her bed without an invitation. He let his bag slide from his shoulder and pulled out a thick anthology, letting it fall open of its own volition and burying his nose in it, leaving her there on the floor amidst her laundry. She knew he couldn't see her, so she let her warm smile fill her face. This was so like him. She had learned very quickly that his little trick of quoting Chaucer to her all those weeks ago wasn't just a trick – he actually, truly loved all of this. Loved poetry and Chaucer and flowery language and English words that didn't look like English. It was just like him to say two words to her and then have his face in a book.

"Thanks for the enthusiastic greeting." She rolled her eyes and went to join him, pulling her own book of much-less-loved poetry towards her – Goddamn Chaucer unit – and regarding it with a measure of disdain. "What've you got over there that's more interesting than my glorious company, hmm?" She pretended to yank it from him, and the indignant look he gave her surprised a laugh right out of her.

"Bad form, Swan, taking a man's poetry away from him."

"Oh please. If I took this one, I bet you've got like five more in your bag."

"Yes, Swan, but this is _Whitman_." His reverent tone caught her for a moment, and the sound of it was like he opened a door, just briefly, into his passion for it. For a moment, she got it.

"Read some." She said, releasing her hold on the book and turning to face him. He regarded her with a half-skeptical, half-annoyed look because…did he think she was kidding? "I'm serious, Killian. Read something. Make me love it."

"As you wish." He said quietly. He tilted the book to see it better, and flipped a few pages before a soft smile lit his features, and he settled with his back against the wall. His voice as he started was soft and gentle, and if she didn't know him – and with a start she realized that she _did_ know him, somehow, even after so short a time – she would be surprised to hear the sound from his mouth. But she did know him – now that she thought about it of _course_ she knew him, and he knew her, and she realized that she couldn't ever lose this man – and she knew that this soft side that loved poetry was just as much a part of him as the side that wore leather jackets and dark jeans, as the side of him that loved loud rock and took her to concerts and then made out with her in the alleys outside as they walked back to campus, as the side of him that had told Walsh all those weeks ago to stop talking to his girlfriend (before she even _was_ his girlfriend) like that. She was coming to know every part of him, and she loved them all.

"You sea," he said softly, and she leaned closer to him to hear, their sides pressed together, and just for the hell of it she let her head drift to rest on his shoulder so she could hear the words rumble in his chest as he spoke them. "I resign myself to you also…I guess what you mean," God she loved the way his voice lilted, British or Irish or something else but so entirely _him. "_I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers, I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me;" And sometimes he would bring her cups of coffee when he came, medium dark roast, with a few lines written on the side: _It was mine heart! I pray you heartily/Help me to seek. _"We must have a turn together…I undress…hurry me out of sight of the land," They had fallen asleep here one night, and when she woke in the morning with his arms around her, nothing had ever felt so perfect. "Cushion me soft…rock me in billowy drowse, dash me with amorous wet…" she leaned over the extra inch to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth as he finished, his eyes locked with hers, and she could see in them her feelings reflected back tenfold. His heart was beating fast, in perfect time with hers. "…I can repay you."


End file.
